The North Star
by Dinogeek
Summary: A man lies on a rooftop in London, looking at the stars. Across an ocean, another man lies on top of a mountain, doing the same. Post-Reichenbach, spoilers 2x03.


**A/N: So this is a kind-of random idea I had after I listened to 'Somewhere Out There' from An American Tail. Yes, a fic based off an animated family movie song. I regret nothing. :P As per usual, reviews are very greatly appreciated and will be responded to. ^-^**

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><p>John didn't know what on earth he was doing on the roof; there was no reason for him to be up there, but it was a nice night and the stars were out, so up to the roof he had gone. Seeing the stars made him think of Sherlock, and his disdain for astronomy in general. Of course, there wasn't very much that <em>didn't<em> make him think of Sherlock after he'd committed suicide. In spite of himself, he couldn't help but feel that the detective had abandoned him. John could've helped, why didn't Sherlock just ask for help? Why did he have to go and jump?

John shook his head sadly, trying to cast off the thoughts, but they wouldn't leave; they hadn't left any other time, after all, why on earth should they go now? True to his word, even though it had been three months since Sherlock's death, John still had not managed to go back to Baker Street. Sure, he stopped by to check up on Mrs. Hudson (how could he not?), but that was the extent of it. He couldn't bring himself to actually enter 221B, to see all of Sherlock's stuff there, and be reminded again that he would never use any of it.

A nightmare had once again roused him from sleep, the same one he'd had since the fall. Every time, he watched Sherlock fall, over and over again, until he felt that to sleep would be to drive himself mad. So he had gotten out of bed and, not knowing what possessed him, gone up to the roof and laid out flat, staring up at the night sky. The wind blew around him, but it was gentle, as if the earth were trying to remind him that yes, it would be okay eventually. The moon shone down, casting everything in a soft light, even the harsh, industrial corners of the London architecture.

Gazing around aimlessly, John's eye struck upon the North Star, Polaris. It was really the only star he could recognize or name, and he remembered teaching it to Sherlock, even though he was sure the taller man had probably deleted it long ago; after all, astronomy was not critical data to store in his hard drive. Still though, John wondered if he remembered it now, wherever he had gone out there in the universe. After the fall, he had frequently spoken to Sherlock inside his head, even though he knew there was no one there to answer him. Now, he whispered out loud, into the night sky towards the North Star, "I hope you're happy, Sherlock, wherever you are."

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><p>Across the Atlantic, where it was just nearly midnight, Sherlock Holmes found himself on top of a mountain, gazing at the stars. The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the trees and shining gently off of the river, and the night was cloudless. Apart from the winter, nights in Virginia were warm, and a calm wind blew through, rustling the branches in the forest and carrying the sounds of the night animals on its back. There were no people out here; there were towns, certainly, but not on top if the mountain, and his position afforded him the solitude he needed.<p>

Sherlock looked at the stars thoughtfully. There were many of them on top of the mountain, so many more than there were in London, scattered chaotically across the sky. Not that he could name any of them, of course. It wasn't important to his work, so he didn't bother to do more than admire. There was one he could name, though- Polaris, the North Star. John had taught it to him, he remembered, back before…

He recalled all the old stories people had told of the North Star; that it was the guiding light, the beacon, bringing back home those who were lost or wandering. Well, Sherlock was both, so he could only suppose he needed it, didn't he? He remembered when John had taught him how to recognize it, after they'd gotten bored one night with no case. John had pulled the detective up to the roof of Baker Street.

"Here, look at that." He had pointed at Polaris. "That's the North Star. Back in the old days before people had compasses, when they got lost, they'd find the North Star to tell them where they needed to go to get back home." Sherlock had held onto the information, despite his disregard for astronomy, because John had taught it to him; that made it worth remembering.

Now he wondered how far he would have to follow the North Star to get back to London; it was a long way from Virginia, but if the old explorers could do it, then Sherlock figured he stood a good chance someday. Someday, he would return, and come back to John, but until then he'd have to keep himself content by looking towards the sky. He knew that John couldn't hear him, not across an ocean, but all the same, Sherlock found himself whispering up towards the North Star, "I'm sorry, John. I promise, one day I'll make things right."


End file.
